He watches her sleep. Stable respiration. No restlessness. Recovery progressing. Good. Mohamad closes the bedroom door and steps into the living room. Jason remains, holding three folders, posture rigid—disapproval contained, not voiced. Predictable.
Mohamad crosses to the counter. "Water."
The smart refrigerator dispenses. He waits. Lets the silence stretch. Jason doesn't move. Concern. Ethical hesitation. Irrelevant. Mohamad lifts the glass. Takes a measured sip. Cool. Neutral. He studies the folders. Transfer documents. Intellectual property assignments. Research control. Future output pipelines. Good.
Her work. Her models. Her derivatives. Contained.
His gaze shifts briefly to Jason, then to the closed bedroom door. If forced, she said. Conditional selection. Not emotional. Not exclusive. A constraint-based preference.
He drinks again. Slower. Then he will remove the conditions. Legal ownership. Financial dependency. Medical control. Professional channeling. Every variable converging toward a single outcome.
His eyes settle on the door. He'll bind them so tightly there will be no exit. No alternative networks. No external leverage. No one she can turn to. Only him.
He finishes the water. If forced… she said. He will make the choice unnecessary. He will make the outcome inevitable.
"Halvorsen's…" Jason hesitates. Mohamad's eyes narrow slightly. Why? "He's ready to present… the selection to you."
Selection. Genetic compatibility results. His… and hers. Good. But the results are irrelevant now. Compatibility implies choice. Probability. Preference. Variables he no longer intends to leave open.
The future does not depend on alignment. It will be constructed. His. Hers.
###
It's been almost three months since we moved in together, but I still find myself unable to contain the shrieks of glee in my head every time I wake up naked against him like this. True to his word, he really doesn't let me wear clothes in bed. Neither does he.
His embrace becomes more like a prison, it shrinks, and I bite my lip, preventing those excited screams in my head from escaping. Listening to his breathing, counting his rhythmic heartbeat, and feeling goosebumps along my legs and arms from the heat emanating from his body, I've grown to love him more. Is that possible?
Don't I already love him so much that it feels oppressive? Why is my submission not enough for him? He wants my body, so I submit. He wants my pleasure, so I wait for him. He wants my love, and I give it freely. He wants my mind, so I work tirelessly. And now he owns parts of my intellectual property. What is he obsessed with? If not my body, my mind, then my feelings? Is he obsessed with the way I love him?
I thought my submission would ease his obsession and satisfy his desire. Now he wants all of my emotions. Why is it that whatever I give never satisfies his possessiveness over me? What does he truly want to possess? Why is it that the more I submit, the more controlling he becomes?
Why do I grow happier while he seems to be more stressed about us? His touches grow more desperate, urgent, and needy, as if he's clinging to me with every caress. Even his kisses become more demanding, as though he can't bear to be too far from me, even for a moment.
I nuzzle my nose against his. What are you clinging to, my love? Am I failing to understand you like I failed Roberto? The thought makes my stomach churn, and my nose prickles as I struggle to breathe through the shivering fear.
As if we could be any closer, his arms constrict. His mouth opens, he swallows my breaths and opens his eyes. "Are you watching me sleep?"
His voice somehow calms me. I nod.
"Did you dream of me?" he asks.
I let out a small laugh. This too, my love. It's not enough that you take most of my waking hours, now you insist on being in my dreams as well? I shake my head into the pillow.
"You slept for over twelve hours and didn't dream of me?" he repeats, frowning.
"Do you want me to dream of you?" I breathe the words onto his lips.
He nods.
"I can't control my dreams, my love."
"Try." His word comes out as if accusing me of not intending too.
"Why?"
"Take me everywhere with you."
"You're in my heart, mind, and body. I love you."
"Then take me into your dreams."
I laugh again and motion to move, but the prison remains.
"I need my phone. I haven't seen my parents in three weeks. My friends—"
He peel my arm off his body and puts atop his head. "Tomorrow."
Digging my fingers into his hair, I massage his scalp. "I can't go back to sleep. I should also check the–"
"I leave in two hours. Stay with me. The software was deployed successfully."
"Another business trip?"
"Moving office." His words accompany a light kiss.
"From?"
"New York."
"To... here?"
He nods, and I can't contain my excitement as I burst out in his ear, "Ahhh!" Throwing my arms around him, wrapping my legs around his body, I hang on like a monkey. He lets me turn him onto his back as I loudly smack my lips against whatever part of him I can reach.
Our laughter vibrates through the spacious bedroom.
"I didn't know your office was in New York. That's why you had to—" The words tumble out whenever I'm happy.
I love the way he silences my lips. "I got tired of missing you," he says, the creases forming around his eyes with that handsome smile.
"I'll never get tired of missing you, my love," I confess. Then remembering Jason, I add, "Poor Jason, is that why he looks so tired? There were dark circles under–" Sensing his body growing more rigid beneath me, I trail off.
"What did I say about—"
I kiss away his anger, speaking his language, silencing him the way he often breaks my sentences. Palms down on the bed, I prop myself up and let my slickness glide along the length of the shaft, teasing every inch. My tongue grazes parted lips, tasting the warmth waiting there.
Eyes shut tight and muscles taut, the body beneath me trembles with restraint. Sheets crumple under clenched fingers, the quiet battle between surrender and control heightening the moment. Every motion invites surrender, a wordless agreement to let me lead.
One hand leaves the bed, fingers trailing down over the curve of a solid chest. They trace the contours of defined pecs, lingering to feel the subtle rise and fall with each shallow breath. Moving lower, fingertips glide across the ridges of toned abs, exploring with clear admiration.
"You feel stronger," I whisper into his ear. "More powerful than ever, like you could carry the world if you wanted to." My lips brush against the edge of his ear, drawing anticipations, before I capture the earlobe between my teeth, tugging a little then nibbling with the playful pressure for a reaction.
Eyes still closed, his hands clutch the sheets tighter, knuckles whitening as if anchoring himself. His lips press firmly together, suppressing something. The creases between his eyebrows deepen, a visible battle etched onto his face. His jaw tightens, muscles flexing with the strain of holding back, resisting what I don't know.
While our sex life is dictated by his initiatives and advances, he doesn't protest when I take the lead. Yet, there's something puzzling about his reactions when I touch him like this. Does he not like to be touched? Or is it the way I touch him?
Once my fingers wrap around his shaft, he relaxes. Propping himself up on his elbows, he watches as the tip of my tongue circles the swollen head. His predatory gaze sharpens, growing darker with every slow, steady pull as more of him disappears between my lips. His brows furrow, his lips press tightly together, and his whole body tenses as I savor the salty taste of his arousal.
He's more sensitive than usual. Keeping eye contact, I release the tip, letting my tongue circle it before sliding my mouth down his hard length. His fists clench tightly, yet hip arches toward me, head tipping back as his eyes flutter shut. His stomach jerks and he looks like he's holding his breath. I let the tip hit the back of my throat, stretching my mouth to take him fully. With small, rhythmic sucks, I vary my pace, alternating between fully engulfing him and returning to tease the tip.
He's lost in the pleasure I give him. Good. I want to return the pleasure he inflicts—not with resentment or anger, but for the sake of pleasure itself. My hand moves in sync with my mouth, gliding smoothly with every motion. A deep grunt escapes him, followed by a groan as he clutches the sheets tightly. He bites his lip just as thick, slightly sweet fluid fills my mouth. I swallow, but it's too much, some spilling onto my chin.
He grabs my jaw and crashes his mouth against mine, thrusting his tongue down my throat, tasting himself. "Go put on some underwear," he orders.
"What happened to the others—"
"Buy more."
"But—"
"Go."
I yield to his turn and let the conversation unfolds.